Sunrise Malice: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance

Jean meets me at the steps to the mansion. “Took you long enough. I called a dozen times.”

“I was busy.” I follow him up and into the building. The guards all look grim and nod as I walk past. It’s nearly dawn and I’m exhausted. “Where is he?”

“This way.” Jean takes me down a side passage and to a door that leads into the basement. The stairs don’t make so much as a creak while we descend.

Cinderblock walls, a narrow hallway, a room at the far end. Everything soundproofed to the point where Metallica could play a stadium concert down here at full volume and nobody would hear it. Light shines from underneath the reinforced metal door. Jean unlocks it with a heavy-duty key and it opens on oiled hinges.

Inside is a man. He’s duct-taped to a chair overtop of a drain in the middle of the bare concrete floor. A dull, naked bulb hangs above him. Off to the side, a series of knives, pliers, and other various tools sit on top of a plastic-covered table.

The man is only half conscious. His face is swollen from a vicious beating, but he’s still very much alive.

I guess he’s twenty-five, maybe as old as thirty, but it’s hard to tell with the wounds. Thinning dark hair, a black shirt and black jeans, both stained with blood. Big, hooked nose. Bad teeth.

“How much did he tell you?” I ask, circling over to the tools.

“Only a little so far. His name, who he works for, how many men were in the truck. I have a few trusted soldiers out catching the rest of them.”

“Very good.” I pick up a thin deboning knife. Flexible, deadly sharp, and terrifying. Good for getting under fingernails. I turn to my victim and study the blade. “You made a mistake yesterday. You never should have gone near my wife.”

The man groans. He lifts his chin and stares at me defiantly. “Dusan will make you pay for this, you swine, you unwashed⁠—”

Jean backhands him into silence. “Watch your mouth,” he snarls.

I nod at Jean and dismiss him before approaching my Serbian captive. A part of me wonders if this man is related to Dusan as well, but I push the thought away; I’m far beyond stopping this fight now.

I had sympathy for Dusan. I never wanted this battle. Grandpère forced my hand and pushed me into a war I still don’t believe will be profitable.

But my wife was nearly hurt, and I can’t forgive that.

“How long were you watching my apartment?” I ask, approaching slowly.

“I don’t know. Hours.”

I press the edge of the knife against his shoulder and flick my wrist. A thin line appears in his skin and he sucks in a hissing breath.

“Were you trying to hit the girl with your truck?”

“Fuck no. My idiot partner’s gun jammed and I was distracted.” He hesitates, cocking his head. “She dead?”

“Lucky for you, she is not.” I give him another slice, just for fun. “Tell me where my drugs are.”

“Fuck you.”

“Try again.” Another slice. He groans, lips pulled back in a pained grimace.

“I’m dead either way. You’re going to kill me if I don’t talk, or Dusan’s going to kill me if I do. I might as well die with dignity.”

He’s got an extremely good point. Most of my basement visitors don’t reach that conclusion until it’s much too late.

“From where I stand, you have two options. Die here and now, or take the chance that I’ll let you go. What’s it matter if you give me what I want? It isn’t like Dusan’s going to come save you.”

“Fuck you,” he says, but there’s a lot less force in his defiance now.

I grab one of his hands and shove the knife between his fingers.

I yank, slicing the sensitive skin, cutting open the webbing.

He screams and I do it again before I let him go and step back.

“One more time. Where are the drugs?”

“I’ll tell you, just please don’t do that again,” he moans, and starts rattling off a location. I take out my phone and type the location into the notes app before pressing the blade of the knife against my captive’s throat.

His eyes go wide with terror.

“You should never have come anywhere near my wife,” I say very softly. “Who told you where I live?”

“I don’t know. Please, you said⁠—”

“Who?” I snarl at him. I feel my control slipping as I remember the deep mourning in Brianne’s eyes while she sat at the hospital next to Kim’s bed.

“Please, nobody told me anything, I don’t⁠—”

I yank the blade across his neck, severing the arteries. He dies choking on his own blood. I kick the body over and leave it to drain into the floor. My men will deal with him later.

I put the knife back on the plastic and leave the basement. Weariness floods me, but at least I have a lead on the drugs. I send the location to Jean and tell him to scout it out.

“Were you busy down there?”

I flinch and look over. Grandpère’s standing nearby, watching me. “Just handling some business.”

He smiles thinly, his dry lips pressed flat. “You always were a vicious creature, Julien. You pretend that you have a heart, but I know the truth. I remember what you were like before I took you in.”

“I was a child living on the street.”

“You were a ruthless, cunning little thing. Why do you think I picked you of all the orphans in Marseille?”

That’s a question I’ve asked myself a thousand times. Why me? What was it that drew Grandpère to me?

I’d never heard of him until the day he cornered me in a crowded subway car. I was trying to pickpocket an old lady standing near the door and Grandpère only smiled and nodded his approval as I shoved the wallet into my jeans. I figure he was just some crazy, doddering old lunatic, but then he followed me, and chased me, and cornered me in an alley. Instead of calling the cops, he offered me a job.

My life changed after that day. I worked for Grandpère for six months before he officially took me into his house and gave me a purpose. I loved him like the trees love the sun, and I hated him just as much. He was always harsh, always bitter and demanding and cruel, but without him I would’ve been nothing but a street rat.

He gave me everything.

“I do what I have to do,” I say finally and turn to leave. “But I have business now.”

“Speaking of business, I’m pleased with the progress you’ve made, although I hear Dusan has gotten the better of you so far. I have no doubt that you’ll find your footing soon.”

Anger sparks in my chest. I turn on him and step close in the dim light of the back hall. Grandpère doesn’t seem afraid; despite his age, he’s still a large man with a barrel chest and broad shoulders.

“I want you to understand something. I blame you for this. My wife was in danger because of a war you started, and I will never forget that. Do you understand?”

Grandpère’s smirk drives me fucking crazy. “Good, you’re angry. Make sure you direct that anger into something productive, Julien. Don’t lash out at me like a child.”

“I am not being a child. My wife’s friend is in the hospital. If I hadn’t been there—” I can’t even finish that sentence. Brianne would be lying in the morgue right now, her body cold and riddled with bullet holes.

“Maybe that’s the wake-up call you needed. Maybe now you’ll take this conflict seriously.”

That motherfucker. “If you weren’t the head of this organization, I’d kill you here and now.”

“I’m sure you’d try, and maybe one day you’ll have the balls to take a shot at me. I look forward to it. But don’t forget who I am and where you come from.”

I turn away and leave Grandpère in the shadows of the hall.

I haven’t forgotten anything. I can’t forget the beatings, the insults, the derision and the pure acidic vitriol. I can’t forget this man belittling me for half my life, and yet still wanting to make him proud.

I can’t forget any of it.